


If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgian Waffles

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's a caterer, Jensen's his best (and most beautiful) client. Hijinx ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgian Waffles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round two of the blindfold kink meme.

"So you're like the secretary who orders the flowers and chocolates for her boss's mistresses, huh?" Chad's hunched protectively over his fourteen-layer caramel cake like he's expecting Jared to take it away at any second, which makes Jared, well, want to take it away from him. Chad may be his test kitchen, but he's also an easy target, and sometimes it's just about impossible not to try and get a rise out of him.

"Kind of? But I like to think of myself as more of a stage manager, you know?" Jared waves his fork. "I set the scene, and anything that happens, it doesn't happen because I made it happen, but when it does happen, it feels better, more right, somehow, because of how I set it up."

Chad snorts. "Yeah, okay, dude. Whatever gets you through the night." He forks up a huge wad of cake and stuffs it in his mouth, chews for a minute before he continues, mouth still full. "This cake's the bomb, though, seriously. If this doesn't get him laid, nothing will."

"I'm glad you like the cake, but I don't think Mr. Ackles needs any help along those lines." Jared's separating the layers of his own slice of cake with his fork, judiciously and in a manner guaranteed to have his mother, were she here, screeching about playing with his food. "He does okay for himself." Which is something of an understatement, but he's learned that to stimulate Chad's overactive prurient instinct is to invite more avid-eyed questions than he's strictly comfortable with.

"Whoa, how do you know he does okay? You get to watch or something?"

Jared rolls his eyes. "Not hardly. But it's not like they adjourn up the stairs to smoke cigars and discuss politics." That's what he says, he flat-out says he doesn't get to watch, but he's lying, because he has. Gotten to watch.

:::

He's been catering Jensen Ackles's larger parties for about four years now, and his sex life for the past year. At the big parties, it's all bustle, bartenders, swarming kitchen and wait staff, and him with his clipboard and headset. At the dinner parties, it's him and a waiter or two. But at the intimate dinners for two, it's just him, there by special request, to cook in Mr. Ackles's beautifully-appointed kitchen and serve and clean up after, and it's happened that a couple of times he's taken the stillness of the dining room for absence and pushed through the (fortunately completely silent) swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room to find that the room isn't anything like empty.

The first time it happened, he heard a loud moan and ducked hurriedly back into the kitchen on the inward swing of the door, without anyone the wiser and without having seen anything more than a shirt crumpled on the table. The next time, though, was a different story; he was halfway through the room when a gasp from the floor alerted him, and he looked down, saw a long, smoothly muscled, decidedly naked back, arms wrapped around it from underneath. After about six hours of stunned immobility, during which time his eyes never actually left the back and its elegant shift of muscle under skin, he let out a gasp of his own, and ran for safety. Another longish pause before laughter floated in behind him from the other side of the door, and a couple of minutes later, Mr. Ackles's voice followed it. "It's safe to come in now, Jared." And the room was empty of backs, naked or clothed, when he worked up the courage to venture back in, but he's pretty sure his blush stuck around for the rest of the night.

So he's learned, now, to listen carefully at the door for a few minutes before he goes into the dining room to clear. He's saved himself several potentially humiliating encounters that way. And if he secretly hopes to hear something as he stops and listens from the kitchen side of the door (and often does), if he secretly fuels his fantasy life with visions of that long smooth back pressing him into the floor (and often does), well. It's not like anyone else ever has to know about that. It's all his own dirty little secret, and it's not like he can't stay professional.

:::

He's cleaning up after one of these dinners-for-two (Misha, poet and Zen adept, on a Vietnamese food kick lately, leaving Jared to scramble for decent recipes on the internet and test them out on a bitterly-complaining roommate, which only Chad could make being fed free Vietnamese food sound like a torture akin to being forced to drink gasoline or something), no naked backs, no stray moans, no mishaps, and so a relief and a disappointment at the same time. He's up to his elbows in dish soap and humming tunelessly along to the vintage Deee-Lite song on his iPod when he feels a tap on his shoulder and jumps about two feet in the air, flinging suds in several different directions and somehow landing face-to-face with (and well within the personal space of) his best client.

"Holy shit!" That's his first, immediate response, and he regrets it the second it's out of mouth. Chad’s voice pops into his head. Way to stay professional, asshole. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ackles." He pulls the earbuds out of his ears and shoves them in his pocket, reaches to brush a glob of soapsuds off Mr. Ackles's shoulder, and stops with his arm outstretched, realizing that swiping at soapsuds with a hand also covered in soapsuds is maybe not the best possible way to render a shoulder suds-free. He drops his hand lamely. "I didn't know you were in here."

But Mr. Ackles is relaxed, clearly in a good mood. "No, I'm sorry, Jared. I should know better than to switch to stealth mode with you." He can't possibly mean what Jared thinks he means. He's smiling, still standing too close, so close that Jared can see for the faint freckles scattered across his nose and oh man, that is not even a little bit good. Jared tries to take a step backward only to find that the sink is right at his back. There's nowhere to go.

"Yeah, subtlety's usually lost on me." He's joking, but the smile fades from Ackles's face.

"Jared, no one who can create a meal that actually makes my mother happy is lacking in subtlety." Mr. Ackles's eyes are intent on his, and Jared holds them for a second before dropping his own gaze.

"Um. Okay, Mr. Ackles." He rubs his soapy hands down the front of his apron. "You know, you don't usually come down before I leave. I mean. Am I running late? Do you need me to clear out and come back to finish tomorrow?"

"No. And yes." The smile's back on Mr. Ackles's face. "Actually, I came down to--well, tonight's dinner was sort of a farewell to Misha, and I know it's short notice, but there's someone else I want to feed. Do you have anything on your books for tomorrow night?"

Jared resists the urge to raise his eyebrows. "Well, there's a dinner, and I usually handle things gameside, but maybe I could send someone--"

"No. It has to be you," Mr. Ackles says firmly, with a look Jared can't quite decipher. "If you can't make it tomorrow night, we'll arrange for another date."

Jared thinks. The dinner's not anything especially elaborate, and Gen can probably handle it on her own. It wouldn't be the first time. "I'll talk to my partner and see what we can work out. Okay to give you a call first thing tomorrow?"

"Thanks, Jared. Tomorrow morning's fine." Mr. Ackles stands there for a second longer, still with that odd look on his face, before taking a step back. "I'll leave you to finish cleaning up now."

"Wait, Mr. Ackles." Jared scrambles for his PDA. "I need a menu from you. What are you planning?"

"Well." There's a brief silence, and Jared looks up from his PDA expectantly. Mr. Ackles's face is thoughtful. "Cheerful, I think, nothing too formal. Maybe something spicy. And I trust you, by now. I'll leave it up to you to do what you think is best." He takes another step back and grins. "Pull out all the fucking stops, Padalecki, this one's a keeper. But, you know, no pressure."

And then he's out of there, as silently as he entered. There are still slowly-disintegrating suds on his shoulder, and that's gonna fuel some unfortunately soapy fantasies for a while.

Jared sighs, pushes his sleeves back up over his elbows, and gets back to work.

:::

Eighteen hours later, all alternate arrangements have been made and he's back in the Ackles kitchen feeling a little as though he never left, prepping ingredients for possibly the most awesome chili on the planet, bar none. If he does say so himself. When he announces the menu to Mr. Ackles, actually uses the words "most" and "awesome" and "on the planet," Ackles laughs and says he doesn't doubt it.

It's like no other dinner Jared's ever prepared in this kitchen. For one thing, chili's a damn sight less formal than the usual fare. And for another, Mr. Ackles is in the kitchen now, has been since Jared got here. Was, in fact, the person who let Jared in, which again, this never happens; usually it's the spectacular and acerbic Ms. Harris (current secretary, infrequent dinner guest who has a taste for court-bouillon, of all things, and also has a highly distracting breathy moan) at the door. And it's not unheard-of for Mr. Ackles to poke his head in the kitchen door and exchange a word or two before the festivities begin, but for him to spend half an hour, sipping a beer and, you know, lingering? Asking personal fucking questions? Listening to stories about Jared's dogs, his Cajun grandfather who refused to eat chili without rice? Offering up childhood stories of his own? Totally, totally unheard of. Good, since it turns out that Jensen Ackles wears informal very well, but decidedly lacking in precedent.

And as if the informality weren't enough, Ackles is also wearing: jeans, equally unprecedented; an honest-to-God t-shirt, ditto. And he's barefoot, too, which for some reason is seriously getting to Jared to a regrettable degree. He'll be innocently chopping onions, chatting back and forth with surprising ease, and he'll catch a glimpse of bare toe in his peripheral vision and all higher brain function will abruptly cease, which thank fuck chopping things is pretty much an autonomic function for him, because otherwise it might possibly have been closing in on midnight before he managed to plate up anything edible.

As it is, forty-five minutes and he's done, nicely on schedule. He covers the chili pot with a flourish and a twirl of an imaginary moustache. Ackles laughs, takes another sip of his beer, and asks, "So now what?"

"Now the chili simmers for at least a couple of hours, and I start on the dessert--"

"You said the caramel cake, right?" Jared thinks there might be actual, literal stars in Mr. Ackles's eyes as he says this. Jared doesn't blame him; that cake is pretty fucking sublime.

"Yep. And after the desert, I'll whip up a batch of cornbread. That way it'll still be hot enough to melt the butter by the time you eat it."

"No rice for the chili?"

"What?" Jared's laughing now, too. "Nah, my grandfather was the only person I ever met who ate it that way."

"Did you ever try it?"

"Sure. I was sort of a picky eater when I was a kid, but I thought my grandfather was the coolest guy in the world -- still think so, by the way -- and whatever he loved was good enough for me. It's especially good with popcorn rice." Jared's practically drooling, the sense memory surprisingly strong.

"I don't have any popcorn rice, but there's some plain old rice in the pantry. You should make some, and we'll try it out."

After this conversation, the meal's feeling uncomfortably personal for Jared. He clears his throat. "Really? I don't know. I doubt your date would touch chili with rice, Mr. Ackles."

Jared measures out flour to sift. He looks up as he levels the measuring cup, and finds Ackles staring at him with an expression Jared can only call nonplussed.

"Wait, Jared." The pause that follows is one of the most awkward of Jared's life, and he doesn't even know why. "Did you really not understand that you're, that you were supposed to be the date?"

Jared places the measuring cup gently on the counter. "Okay, no. I absolutely did not." He stares at the flour for a second, gathering his thoughts. "Wait, that's the way you ask people out? Hire them to come to your house and cook for you?"

"Well--" Mr. Ackles seems at a loss for the first time since Jared met him. "Jared, I thought we were flirting. I thought, all this time, listening at the door, and all those looks you gave me--"

Shit, shit, so much for dirty little secrets. "Oh my God." Jared takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath. He doesn't think he's ever been so embarrassed, and he lives with Chad, the universe's current head of Embarrassing Moment Production. "I think maybe I should go, Mr. Ackles." Except that leaving requires more motor skills than Jared's capable of, so he ends up standing there, staring at his hands like an imbecile, not daring to risk anything so dangerous as looking into Mr. Ackles's face. He thinks the backs of his hands might be flushed; the rest of him definitely is. He wishes he had a little space to think.

Except there Ackles is again, sneaking into Jared's personal space like he's supposed to be there. He puts a hand on Jared's shoulder. "Jared, I'm so sorry. I thought we were on the same page here. I thought you maybe had a little bit of a voy-- and I was really kind of turned-- you know what, I should probably stop right there and let you go." He laughs a little helplessly. "Look, I'll pay you for a full night and handle the cleanup. I'm really sorry I read this so wrong."

He tightens his grip for a second and then steps away, and now that Jared has a little breathing room, Jared suddenly wishes he didn't have quite so much. Everything's so much harder when you're forced to think about your next step. He mumbles something under his breath, and Ackles leans in.

"What? I didn't catch that."

"I said." Jared breathes deeply and scrubs an onion-scented hand through his hair. "I said that you didn't read it wrong." He takes another bracing breath, and one more like that and he’ll be hyperventilating. "Any of it." Ackles is staring at him. "I just didn't know that you were reading it, is all."

Ackles takes a moment to process this, and smiles. It's a predatory smile, and while Jared's seen it make appearances before, he's never actually seen it directed at him. It's knee-weakening, no doubt about it. "Okay, then. What do you suggest we do next? Cake-baking still on the agenda?"

Jared doesn't look away, just reaches behind him to turn the burner on the stove way down. "Maybe not right this second." He steps forward and Ackles pulls him in.

As first kisses go, it's pretty intense. Pretty perfect, actually, as first kisses go, expected in some ways -- it's not like he hasn't gotten some idea of Mr. Ackles's rate of kissee satisfaction over the last months -- and overwhelming, too, because Jared may have been imagining this for the entire time he's known Ackles, but the reality is so much better, wetter and a little rougher as he grips Jared's hair hard enough to pull and thrusts his tongue into Jared's mouth. "Christ, Jared, do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?" Jared does want to know, but he really wants to keep kissing too, and so he affects a quick compromise and leans down to lick at that stubbly, freckly, ridiculously kissable throat. Ackles groans and clutches tighter at Jared's hair. "Fucking years. I used to watch you at those big parties, with your clipboard and headset. So hot and efficient."

Jared's laughing now between licks, and he's looking for the perfect space to suck a bruise onto Ackles's perfect throat. Efficient, hell yeah, Jared's a multitasker from the word go. "Efficient, huh? Yeah, I can see how that'd turn you on."

"Jared." Ackles is a little breathless, now, and Jared's liking breathlessness on him even more than he likes casual. "I'm a businessman. Businessmen are so deeply turned on by competence, believe me." He bites at Jared's ear, and that's the last time Jared feels in any way capable of coherent speech for a good while.

They're a lot further along, shirts on the floor, Ackles scraping his teeth over Jared's nipples and then sucking at them until Jared thinks he might be able to come just from that, and he's not even that much into nipple play. (Just, he guesses, into Ackles.) He's not quite certain of supporting his own weight, so it's a good thing there's a countertop right there for him to lean back on. His hands are digging into Ackles's hipbones, fingertips edging under the waistband of those jeans, which he's thinking about unzipping except he's not quite ready to let go of those gorgeous hips, and God, it's so good, unable to make himself move on because he's just liking this moment too fucking much to do it. And then he remembers that this isn't what he wants.

"Hey." He tugs a little at Ackles's hair, and moans as Ackles bites down a little harder. "Hey, wait. I don't want to do this here, okay?"

"What, not in the kitchen?" Ackles straightens, pinching gently at him. Jared gasps and leans in needily for more, and Ackles obliges with excellent grace. "Not in the house? Not in the state of Texas? Because, you know, we can work it out, as long as we end up doing this." He rubs his thumb gently over the skin he's just pinched pink.

It takes Jared a second to remember what he's been saying. "Not in the kitchen. I guess all those years of cooking… I keep thinking, this is great and all, but you're gonna be eating off this counter."

Ackles laughs. "We'll have to work on getting you comfortable with that, because I have a favorite fantasy that involves fucking you over this very island. But we can save it for later." His hands have moved from Jared's nipples to his fly, unbuttoning, fingers brushing against the front of Jared's boxers as he goes. "Bedroom?"

Jared raises his eyes from his own fly and grips Ackles's hips tighter. "No. I have a fantasy of my own, you know."

"Hmm, okay, then, you can tell me all about it. On the condition that you call me by my fucking first name."

Jared feels the grin stretching his face as he backs Jensen, Jensen, Jensen through the kitchen door.

:::

And that's how Jared finds himself naked on his back on the immense refectory table in the dining room, solid enough that it's not even moving as Jensen rolls his hips so far into Jared that Jared thinks he can feel Jensen's cock pushing against his ribcage, so hard into him that he thinks his lungs might be collapsing, so good with his legs around Jensen's back and Jensen's finger pressing right at the edge of his hole, where his cock is sliding sharply in and out of Jared, and Jared's so full already but if that finger slips in, he's ready for it, he feels open to more and more of Jensen with each thrust.

He's concentrating so hard on Jensen's dick and God the feel of it that when Jensen orders him (in the roughest, sexiest, most orgasm-inducing voice he's ever heard) to jerk himself off, he's a little surprised that he's managed to get this far without thinking of it first. He wraps his hand around his own dick, pulling roughly the way he likes it, and then Jensen's finger slides up from his hole to massage his balls, and Jared's just done, coming all over his chest, little spurts on the tabletop, too, while Jensen watches with a dazed, greedy expression on his face, fucking harder than ever into Jared as his own control slips and he follows Jared under.

:::

It's not until much later -- after another round and the cleanup, after a midnight chili-raid on the kitchen (with rice and without, because it turns out that Jensen's not a fan after all), after Jared's called Chad and asked him to walk the dogs for him, after they've tangled themselves up in Jensen's huge platform bed -- that Jensen sits up bolt upright.

"Oof," says Jared, rolled off without notice, sleepy and disoriented. "What's wrong?" He slides his hand up Jensen's inner thigh.

"Don't distract me, Jared." He pulls Jared's hand away, but Jared notices that he's not letting it go. "I just realized that I got cheated out of my rightful caramel cake. That I'm _paying_ for."

Jared gasps. "I knew it! You're just using me for my cake."

"This is entirely true. I'm only sorry I couldn't maintain the charade longer, get more cake out of you before you found me out."

"Oh, I don't mind so much. Just keep fucking me like you did tonight and we'll be square." Jared removes his hand from Jensen's and cups Jensen's dick with it and considers. "In fact, if you come to bed right now, I'll even make it for breakfast."

Jensen settles back with a puff of pillows. "Done."


End file.
